Page 54 of The Unforgiven
Talk around the dinner table centered mostly on politics, and the conversation became heated when the subject of abolition came up, as it inevitably did whenever men got together. Mr. Monroe, although amiable and charming, had some harsh views on slavery and believed that paying a man a fair wage for a day’s work was the way of the future. His wife, a pretty young woman with wide dark eyes and ebony curls, didn’t say much, but Madeline noted the look of panic in her eyes. No doubt this very conversation took place everywhere they went, and she knew exactly what to expect, and dreaded it.
“Ladies, why don’t we adjourn to the parlor for some coffee and allow the men to continue their fascinating discussion,” Mrs. Montlake suggested and led the ladies from the dining room.
Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. The end of the dinner party was in sight. She couldn’t wait to go home and climb into bed where she could stop smiling and nodding like an idiot in false support of issues she knew next to nothing about. She strongly suspected the rest of the female guests felt the same. They had contributed little to the conversation and seemed to be on hand only to grace the arms of their husbands, who paid them scant attention as they discussed business and politics.
Madeline followed the ladies into the parlor and accepted a cup of coffee from the same maid who’d served cocktails earlier. She wanted to thank the girl, but the servant never made eyecontact with any of the guests, and retreated to the corner until someone required a refill, cream, or a clean serviette.
Mrs. Montlake settled on a settee in front of the low coffee table where several offerings of dessert were displayed. There was molasses cake, pineapple upside-down cake, and baked rice pudding, which Madeline would have liked to sample had her corset not been laced so tightly. She would probably be ill if she tried to eat anything more. Even a few sips of coffee made her feel as if she couldn’t breathe.
The ladies applied themselves to the dessert, but the tension from the earlier conversation lingered, particularly with Mrs. Monroe, the only Northerner in the room.
“Pardon me for saying,” Mrs. Clinton began as she pushed her plate away, “but I just don’t see any sense in the abolitionist point of view. Why, freeing the slaves would be an act of unspeakable cruelty. They are as helpless as children. What would they do with themselves if they didn’t have us to care for them? How would they feed themselves? We give them a home, plentiful food, clothes, and even days off from work. We’re generosity itself when it comes to those the good Lord made inferior.”
The rest of the ladies nodded in agreement, but Mrs. Monroe glanced toward a portrait hanging on the opposite wall and remained resolutely silent.
“What do you think, Mrs. Monroe?” Mrs. Clinton asked, smiling at the poor woman like a cat who had a mouse by the tail.
“I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Clinton. I’ve never owned slaves.”
“But surely you must have an opinion on the subject,” Mrs. Clinton persisted.
“The Negroes I know are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves and are in no way mentally inferior,” Mrs. Monroe replied. “In fact, they’re a lot more intelligent than some white folk I know.” She clearly meant to slight Mrs. Clinton, but the womandidn’t even notice the insult, too scandalized by what Mrs. Monroe had just implied.
“You socialize with Negroes?” she squeaked.
“Yes, I do. Some of them are my friends.”
There was a collective gasp from the ladies in the room, but they instantly recovered from shock and tried to smooth things over.
“You are very generous of spirit, Mrs. Monroe,” Mrs. Montlake exclaimed. “That’s most Christian of you. We are all God’s children after all. Are we not?” She cast a warning look at Mrs. Clinton, who ignored her completely.
“This whole thing will be old news by Christmas,” Mrs. Clinton said, referring to talk of secession. “It’s absurd, is what it is. Imagine, breaking up the Union. I quite enjoy my summers in Saratoga. I wouldn’t care to give them up. Harold and I have many friends in the North, and they are perfectly agreeable people.”
“How do they feel about you owning slaves?” Mrs. Monroe asked. She gave Jane Clinton a sharp look, but Mrs. Clinton was only too happy to reply, as though thrilled to have finally goaded Mrs. Monroe into a confrontation.
“Oh, they don’t give a picayune, my dear. They enjoy our company and we enjoy theirs. We don’t spoil things with talk of slavery. Harold and I do not keep company with those holier-than-thou types; they do tend to go on and on about their views.”
“Perhaps their opinions are worth listening to,” Mrs. Monroe replied.
“Why? What do they know of our life?” Jane Clinton asked, looking around the room for support from her fellow Southerners. “They will not be affected by the abolition of slavery because they own none, but our whole way of life will fall apart if it comes to pass. Our God-given way of life, I should add. I hope itdoesn’t come to that, but Harold and I would fully support seceding from the Union if abolition became inevitable.”
“What will happen to us if we leave the Union?” Mrs. Roberts asked. She was about eighteen, and newly married.
“Not much, I expect,” Jane Clinton retorted. “We don’t need them. It’s they who need us. Their tea will be very bitter without our sugar, and their gowns awfully threadbare without our cotton. They best learn to mind their own business and see to their own problems, of which they have many.”
“You seem very well informed, Mrs. Clinton,” Mrs. Roberts said, clearly impressed with the older woman’s vehemence.
“My Harold likes to discuss things with me,” Mrs. Clinton said proudly, as though to imply most women were kept ignorant of current events. “Does your husband discuss matters with you, Mrs. Monroe?” she asked sweetly, but Madeline could see she was gunning for the Northern woman once again.
“Yes, Clayton discusses things with me, and I discuss things with him, such as my involvement with the abolitionist movement. Clayton supports me in my beliefs and has made a sizeable donation to a fund for runaway slaves.”
“That’s theft,” Jane Clinton fumed. “You are harboring someone’s property.”
“No human being should be anyone’s property, but I know you disagree, so perhaps we ought to talk of something you find easier to comprehend, such as fashion, or the weather, which is lovely, by the way. There’s autumn in the air in Upstate New York, but here, summer just goes on and on,” Mrs. Monroe replied airily, a small smile playing about her lips. She’d retaliated skillfully with the insult to Mrs. Clinton’s intelligence and seemed quite pleased with herself.
Madeline sank deeper into her wingchair, grateful that Mrs. Clinton hadn’t tried to draw her into the conversation. Weregrown-up gatherings always like this, all barbed comments and sly looks dressed in layers of floral silk and adorned with pearls? She had much to learn of adult society.
“Ladies, I bought the most darling bonnet the other day,” Mrs. Montlake chimed in desperately. Offending Mrs. Monroe could threaten her husband’s business arrangement with Clayton Monroe, and it was Mrs. Montlake’s duty as hostess to keep the peace, even if she wholeheartedly agreed with Jane Clinton. “It’s decorated with flowers that are so lifelike, a bee actually tried to pollinate one.” She smiled around the room, silently calling for a truce.
